The hotel gig was otherwise excellent. It had been honed and improved through eight separate successful runs. Post-mission critiques added suggestions to make the prank calls more convincing. “Toss in a part about taking the stairs instead of the elevators. Everyone’s familiar with that, so it’s a legitimizing reference point.”
They continued refining the script until it couldn’t miss:
A hotel room phone rang on one of the upper floors.
“Hello, this is the front desk, and we have an emergency. There is a fire of unknown origin, and our sprinkler system is not responding even with manual override. We need you to evacuate immediately by the stairs. Do not take the elevators! Repeat, do not take the elevators! And on the way out, we need you to break off all the sprinkler heads in the hall with a shoe . . .”
But the hotel gig developed an obvious new problem. Since they were now using webcams, the entertainment value of the chaos in an internal hallway would be unseen. They put their heads together.
“We need to get them out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk in view of the cam.”
“But how?”
“What about chemical or biological contamination?”
“That’ll work.”
“Okay, so people are standing on a sidewalk. What’s funny about that?”
“It’ll be late. They’ll be drowsy in their pajamas.”
“I’m still not feeling it.”
“I got it. We tell them to spray one another with fire extinguishers to prevent chemical burns . . .”
That got the ideas flowing.
“. . . And once they’re on the sidewalk, we tell them to take off all their clothes.”
Perfection.
They came up with the place, time and date, and agreed to meet back online.
They began signing off. Until only a single person was left.
The Internet has what is known as lurkers. Means just about the same in real life. They sneak into various alleys of cyberspace and never post. Simply watch and listen, and you’d never know they were there.
The last person left alone in the Merry Pranksters’ chat room was one such lurker. He read down through the entire evening’s activities and printed out a complete transcript.
Then he logged off.
Chapter Nine
THE NEXT DAY
Sunset. A black Firebird Trans Am pulled up to a pancake house on U.S. 1 just north of Hollywood.
A lime neon sign said the establishment also made good pies. The tables in the windows were full of customers holding the kind of laminated menus that had big pictures of food to speed the process.
Coleman crumpled a beer can against the top of his head. “Look at all those people eating breakfast at night.”
“I love eating breakfast at night,” said Serge. “It means you’re calling the shots.”
“With me it means I passed out and lost my watch.”
“Coleman, you don’t wear a watch.”
“Right.”
The pair jumped out of their car.
“Oh my God!” Serge placed a hand over his heart. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of my whole life!”
A smiling man slapped the hood of a Corvette Stingray convertible. “You like?”
“Hell yes!” Serge ran over and extended a hand. “I’m Serge.”
“I’m Cid. Friends call me Uncle Cid, but I don’t know—”
“Can I drive!” Serge hopped up and down like a first grader. “Can I? Can I? Can I?”
Cid thinking,
Serge caught them on the fly and vaulted the unopened driver’s door. The sports car roared to life and sped away from the restaurant, where someone else was hiding in the alley with a planted pickup truck.
“Uh, you might want to slow down a bit,” said Cid.
“No, I’m fine.” They screamed through a yellow light.
Cid gripped the dashboard. “Have you ever driven one of these before?”
“Oh, many, many, many— No. But I’ve watched other people.” Serge gripped the stick shift and got both feet ready on the pedals. “Here’s what’s really fun about these babies. I’m skipping a gear now.”
“What?”
Serge hit the clutch and jumped from second to fourth with a gnarling sound that repair shops love to hear. They were pasted back in their seats like the upper stage of a Saturn rocket igniting.
Serge tilted his head with a smile. “Ever seen
“You’re blind!”
Serge wove back and forth over the center line.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh! Stop the car! Stop the car!”
“The car’s yellow.” Serge playfully punched Cid in the shoulder. “I was just joshin’. Don’t you remember I caught the keys when you tossed them? You should see someone about your nerves.” He floored the pedal, and they were flattened back again.
“Slow down!”
“I can’t hear!”
“Slow down!”
Serge skidded to a stop at a green light. Horns blared as speeding traffic swerved around. “I couldn’t hear with all the wind and the engine. What were you saying?”
“Good Lord! Do you always drive like this?”
“Of course not.” Serge accelerated again. “This isn’t my car, so it’s only proper respect to drive extra carefully.”
